Morning sun filtered through the blinds and onto the patchwork quilt. Dean squinted and rolled over. The recliner was empty, and silverware clinked in the kitchen: Ruthie was already up. He pushed himself up on one elbow. At the foot of the bed lay a neatly folded pile of clothes. A black t-shirt and a long-sleeved flannel sat on top of his freshly washed jeans.

"Good morning," Ruthie said from the kitchen. She nodded at the clothes. "You dress a lot like my dad."

"He had good taste." Dean paused. "Are you sure you're okay with me taking these?"

She opened a carton of cream and poured some into a saucepan on the stove. "People always said he'd give anyone the shirt off his back. Yeah, I'm sure."

This girl had just lost her dad, and apparently her job, too. But here she was, taking care of a total stranger, feeding him, giving him her dad's clothes. He hadn't handled his own dad's death quite as well. Sitting there in bed, his arms could still feel the reverberations of metal smashing glass, iron denting steel. He'd taken his anger and grief out on the Impala.

Ruthie's voice pulled him back into the present. "How'd you sleep?"

"Like a drunk baby."

Ruthie laughed. Her laugh sounded like comfort, like the taste of apple pie. He made a mental note to try and make her laugh again.

She filled a large bowl at the sink, laid a washcloth over the rim of the bowl, and headed toward the bed. She set the basin and a bar of soap on the side table, and took a seat on the edge of the bed. "Let's see how you're looking." While she leaned over him, carefully peeling back the gauze, her lips were slightly pursed as she focused on his stitches. He couldn't help noticing how it emphasized the already distinct cupid's bow of her top lip.

She glanced over at him, and he quickly dropped his gaze.

"There's a bit of red here," she said. "It's probably just inflammation, but I want to get you on antibiotics as soon as we can get to town, just to be safe."

"You're the expert."

She stood up. "You can't submerge in water, but we need to keep the whole area clean and dry." She gestured at the bowl. "So this is your shower. Get cleaned up and

dressed; I'm going to shovel the front walk."

Dean sat up and threw his hands out to the sides. "What's a guy gotta do to get a sponge bath around here?"

"Be unconscious and hypothermic," came the dry reply as she disappeared into the hallway.

He heard Ruthie stepping into her boots. A door opened, and a cold draft breezed through the cabin while she shoveled a place to stand on the front porch. He waited until the door closed, cutting off the chilly breeze. Dean pushed the covers back, gingerly turned and swung his legs over the side of the bed, and started washing up. When he was finished, he took more gauze and tape from the side table and covered the stitches again. Ruthie had made it look easy, but he felt clumsy trying to hold the gauze in place while managing the tape. In the end, the gauze was crooked and there were lumps in the tape, but it would do.

Pulling on his jeans sent darts of pain through his side, but he didn't feel any of the cuts reopen. The t-shirt was trickier, but he managed. It wasn't until he was on the last few buttons of the flannel that he realized how much the process had exhausted him. His whole torso ached, and the room was doing a slow spin. He sat down heavily on the bed just as Ruthie came back inside. Her cheeks were flushed pink and she was a little out of breath.

She beamed at him as she pulled off her heavy coat. "Look at you! I wasn't sure you'd be able to do it."

Dean shrugged as though it was nothing, and he wasn't about to pass out.

She opened the door to the potbelly stove and added another log to the fire. "Hungry?" she asked.

"What are we having?"

"Hot chocolate and apple pie," she said. "Breakfast of champions."

"My nurse is giving me apple pie for breakfast? Is that what they serve at the hospital?"

"No. But maybe they should." She finished shedding her gloves and hat and headed into the kitchen. "There are a lot of things they don't teach you in nursing school. You learn them from experience. One thing I've learned is that people heal fastest when they're happy." She turned a knob on the kitchen stove and stirred the saucepan. "And I saw you last night. I think you would have come back from the dead for a piece of that pie."

Dean considered this. "Stranger things have happened."

"And you haven't had my hot chocolate yet. It's at least as good as the pie."

"Nothing is better than pie." His mouth was already watering. "When you meet Sam, tell him I get to eat whatever I want when I'm injured." His words trailed off at the end. A pang shot through his chest, but it had nothing to do with his wound. He stood, opened the blinds, and peered out into the bright, white-carpeted backyard clearing.

"I'm sure he's okay, Dean. We'll find him."

"Yeah," he replied. Suddenly, he felt he couldn't stand staying here another minute, eating delicious food with a pretty girl while Sam was God knows where. He sat down again and started pulling on his boots, as though that would speed things along.

"Don't you tear those stitches," Ruthie warned, pointing her wooden spoon at him.

A low engine noise reached them, growing louder by the second. Their eyes met, and a little O of surprise on Ruthie's lips spread into a bright smile. "Vern!" She took a large thermos down from a cabinet. "I'm going to give him some hot chocolate. You get your boots on. Then let's go find Sam."

She didn't have to tell him twice. He bent again to tie his laces, ignoring the complaints from his side. The engine noise blared louder when the door opened. He started on his right boot. After a few seconds, the door closed again and footsteps returned through the hallway.

"I think we should go to the Four Feathers Inn first," Dean called. "That's where we—"

Ruthie wasn't alone.

The wolf had one hairy hand clamped over Ruthie's mouth, its long, thick claws jabbing into her cheek. Its other arm wrapped around her, pinning her upper arms to her sides. Its faded gray jacket had a big rip in the sleeve and was streaked with dirt. Ruthie's body was rigid, her eyes wide and white and glued to Dean.

In one lightning motion, Dean snatched his gun and was on his feet, aiming at the wolf's face—which was half-hidden behind Ruthie's.

The werewolf leered at him through unnatural yellow eyes, baring its revolting yellow teeth. "How's the chest?" it sneered.

"I'll live."

The wolf's eyes glinted. "I wouldn't count on it."

"How'd you find me?" Dean hoped to get it talking, get it distracted. He needed a clear shot.

The monster lifted its nose and took a deep whiff. "Can't you smell it? Your scent? Your blood?" It jerked its head toward the black woodburning stove and grinned. "Smelled like a Winchester barbecue from a mile away."

Ruthie's forehead contracted; her eyes filled. Now Dean hated the thing even more, for making her feel guilty.

"Uh-huh. So what took you so long to get here?" Keep talking, Cujo.

Its lips curled back, exposing two extra-long canines. "I'm asking the questions," it snapped. "Where's your big brother?"

"I am the big brother."

It ignored him. "I know he's not here; I don't smell him. So where is he?"

Ruthie's eyes had lost their terror-filled glaze. Now they bored into Dean like drills. She tapped two fingers against the side of her leg.

He made eye contact with her for only a second, just long enough to tell her he'd seen, without tipping off the wolf. Not that he knew what she meant. Was she going to try something in two seconds? He hoped not. That werewolf would tear her apart.

Arms still pinned to her sides, Ruthie curled her fingers like claws. She pointed a thumb up at the wolf behind her, then pointed down the hallway, at the front door.

Realization punched him in the gut. There were two of them. Two wolves. She'd seen another one out front.

Two werewolves. One bullet.

Son of a bitch.